


a piece of red thread

by somnium_astrum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnium_astrum/pseuds/somnium_astrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That thread that connects you to him?  It's red. This is significant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a piece of red thread

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this on my phone, as my computer is being quite silly (honestly, an entire row of keys just decided to stick. I'm not kidding, just now, as if the computer wanted to help further prove my point). Spoilers for season 4, kinda? As long as you know who Castiel is, you're good. Pre/slash, if you, you know, squint. I started to write more of this, but then I realized I kind of like how this ends. Perhaps someday. Never say never, right?
> 
> Written for fun. Not profit. I do not own. In case it's not alarmingly obvious. Etc.

**I.**

 

The first time you see him, something almost tangible shifts inside you. You pause to consider this, this _feeling-_

Stop. It doesn't matter.

Only the mission matters.

He's barely more than _soul flesh,_ tired, broken, and so very bright. Beautiful. He's barely more and so much more.

He's been in Hell for forty years.

You stand silently, solemnly and watch as Alastair leads him to the Rack. You're surprised to find yourself curious. You can only imagine the things he's seen, the pain he's both endured and inflicted. You try tell yourself that most of these poor souls did not deserve mercy.

It does not make anything easier.

You watch your charge's eyes flicker with _joylongingdisgustpaingleepainpain_ and you know it is time to act.

Quickly, before Hell can be alerted to your presence, you grab his soul into your arms, surround him with your Grace. You whisper; _everything will be all right, Dean Winchester._ You have Faith in your Father, truly, but some part of you wonders if it will. Wonders how someone, anyone, survives this. Some part of you thinks; _oh Father, what have you done to your child?_

Stop.

But _oh God,_ he's been in Hell for forty years.

 

**II.**

 

You stand watch, invisible, as his human form, restored and brilliant, stumbles from his grave.

His. Grave.

_Sometimes there are no words._

Without warning, your Grace stutters and flares to life. You blink. He has green eyes, blood and dirt and scars across his body and your hand print on his very soul. You don't understand the warmth that fills you with this thought, but it pleases-

Stop.

You follow him, shielded from his human eyes and you can't deny the knowledge that there is a piece of thread that connects you to him.

You find yourself disappointed that he cannot hear your True Voice. You are filled to the brim with regret when the psychic is blinded and you are completely baffled that this Righteous Man does not believe in angels. Does not believe in you. How completely odd, this tiny human who fills you with so many new emotions. But then again, every emotion is new. You wish to explore these _feelings_ more-

Stop. Only the mission matters.

_I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition;_ you tell him later.

What you mean is; _I held your soul and it-_

You're not exactly sure what it did. But you _know_ it did something.

Just stop.

 

**III.**

 

That thread that connects you to him? It's red. 

This is significant.

 

**IV.**

 

You have always been a good solider. Loyal to your Father. Loyal to your garrison. You followed your orders, loved your Father, took joy in His creations. And all was _right_ in your world. 

You have never questioned these things. Until now.

Now, well now your wings are black. Singed and tattered. A reminder of your moment in Hell. A reminder of Dean.

Now, you watch two brothers fight against destiny, against prophecy, against the Word and some sense of _thisisnotright_ lodges itself in your thoughts.

You are not sure what is not right but you believe your Righteous Man. Believe _i_ _n_ him.

You seek balance in these new thoughts and your existence becomes a dance. An intricate ballet. Maybe it always was.

_Avante_! A thousand voices call. Not one of them is your Father's.

You listen anyhow. This is how you were made.

_Pirouette. Jeté. Glissade._

This is your duty.

_Fouetté. Fouetté. Fouetté. Fouetté. Fouetté. F-_

No. Stop.

Maybe this is the way the world ends.

But then again, maybe not.

 

**V.**

 

Red is the color of Dean Winchester's blood. You know this all too well.

It is the color of rage and anger and hatred.

But it also the color of love.

This too, is significant.


End file.
